Page 13 of Drawing Home
Back behind the front desk, she took a call from a guest who needed a blow-dryer. Apparently, room 8 was missing one. Emma called housekeeping to bring one up and then she checked the ledger to see who had checked out yesterday. People walked away with the strangest things.
“Miss, I need your assistance.”
Emma looked up. The woman had asked for help politely, but there was a shrillness to her voice that told Emma she had about four seconds to respond before things got ugly. “What can I do for you?” Emma asked with a smile.
“I’m Bea Winstead,” the woman said, as if that should mean something to Emma. She had coiffed white hair and wore gumball-size pearl earrings and a matching necklace. Her white blouse was embroidered with small green frogs, and one arm was laden with enamel Hermès bracelets. Her mouth had the telltale creases of a smoker or a former smoker. “I need two rooms for the next thirty days.”
Was this a joke? Emma glanced down at the full reservation book, columns and columns of her own handwriting.
The woman in front of her mused aloud that maybe she actually needed three rooms, one for their luggage and other “operational needs.”
Emma braced herself. “I’m afraid we are fully booked at the moment.”
“How is that possible?” The woman pressed her hand to her chest and turned to look at a man who was standing next to her holding luggage. Her son? Tough to say. He appeared to be around Emma’s age and she couldn’t help but notice his all-American good looks. Hopefully, he would be the voice of reason.
“Well, we have only eight rooms. And we get quite busy this time of year. If you’d like, I can give you the names of some—”
“Where is Jack? I want to speak to him immediately.”
It wasn’t uncommon for people who knew Jack from around town or from Palm Beach, where he spent his winters, to ask to speak to him when they wanted something at the hotel. But it was Emma’s job to be a buffer. Jack always told her that if there was someone at the hotel he wanted to hear from, she would know about it in advance. Before she could launch into her scripted response—Jack was away from the premises but Emma would be happy to call the general manager, blah-blah-blah—the man intervened.
“Bea, I’m sure this woman can direct us to another place to stay.”
“This is the only suitable hotel in this backwater!”
Emma bristled at the slight to her hometown. She was used to visitors not fully appreciating its charm and history, but she’d never heard it outright insulted before.
The man looked at her with an apologetic smile. “If you have any cancellations, will you let me know?” He had dimples.
“Certainly,” Emma said, taking his phone number.
And then Emma remembered that a couple who had reserved a room for two nights had found out that Baron’s Cove had a pool and checked out a day early. She leaned over the reservation book to see a faint line in blue ink crossing out the second day of the booking. She should have made a bolder note. She had probably been doing three other things at once.
“Actually,” she said, “we do have a cancellation. You’re in luck. We have one room available.”
“Young lady, I needtworooms,” the woman said indignantly, as if Emma’s insufficient solution to the problem were a personal affront.
Emma smiled. “Honestly, it’s a miracle we have one.”
“We’ll take it,” said Mr. All-American.
The woman slid her credit card across the desk.
Bea had really expected better service from the venerable hotel. The woman at the front desk practically had to be begged to take Bea’s money. Very disappointing. Nonetheless, she followed her up the stairs to the third floor. Kyle followed close behind with their bags.
The hallways were narrow and lined with heavy wooden furniture, potted plants, and gilt-framed mirrors; the walls were covered in floral-print wallpaper.
“We call this room the Apartment,” the desk woman said, turning her key in the door.
The room was a duplex. It had a small living area with an exposed-brick wall and a fireplace, next to which was a heavy antique wooden desk and a large potted plant. Across the room was a large couch covered in brocade cushions. Behind it, a framed painting of a sailboat. The plaid carpeting continued up narrow stairs that led to what Bea supposed was the bedroom.
“Morestairs?” Bea asked, hands on her hips.
The woman, clearly at the end of her patience, headed out. “My name is Emma. Please call the front desk if you need anything further.” With that, she left, closing the door behind her.
“That woman is very rude.”
“No, Bea, she isn’t.”
